Screw That
by clair beaubien
Summary: Set in the nascent 5th season. The brothers aren't talking, they aren't happy, they aren't anything but pissed and miserable. And Dean's just never been patient about that sort of thing.


Sam packs his stuff up and leaves the motel room without saying anything. Through the window I can see that he leaves his backpack next to the car and walks off across the parking lot where I can't see him. Probably on purpose. We've had a lot of that between us lately.

Screw that.

I move around my bed until I _can_ see him and finish up my own packing where I can keep an eye on him. All he does though it walk to the far end of the parking lot and stand staring up at a pile of earth so big and so barren it looks like it is, was, or will be, a landfill.

We stay in the swankiest places.

I wonder what he's doing, what he's looking at, what am I going to have to worry about now? I gotta say, if I thought things were tense between us before, I'm learning now that I had no clue what _tense_ meant. How bad it could be.

It's bad when '_you wanna eat?'_ is the equivalent both of a filibuster and a trip wire. It's bad when we automatically adjust our steps and movements to keep as far away from each other as possible. It's bad when that kid that I used to know so well seems a total stranger to me now. It's just _bad._

I pack up and shut the motel door and stow our bags into the trunk and look at Sam but he's not moving, not coming back to the car. I don't think he's pissed – because really, that's the one thing he's _never_ hidden from me. I don't think he's zoning out in withdrawal, because he hasn't been showing any of the symptoms that I – in hindsight – ripped out of my memory and burned into my awareness.

He's just standing there, hands in the pockets of that hooded jacket he wears, even though it barely fits him anymore. I don't mean just physically, even though the sleeves aren't as long as they need to be. It just seems odd that the kid – the _man_ – who is so powerful that heaven and hell fear him and used him and have no clue what to do with him now, that that man wears _a hoodie._ Some people have comfort food; Sammy has comfort clothing.

I don't know anymore what _I_ have.

We have to get on the road, but not _right _now, so I wait a minute or three to see what he's going to do. But he doesn't do anything, just stands there, staring at nothing really that I can see. I used to be able to tell just by looking at Sam whether he wanted to be alone, or wanted me to stand next to him, or wanted some combination of the two that I could always figure out. And I used to not care if what Sam wanted wasn't what I knew he needed. Now, it's just – _now._ If I do what he doesn't want, who knows how big and how loud the explosion could be.

Well, screw that. I never expected to live forever anyway. I walk over to Sam and stand next to him, looking at what he seems to be looking at, and I still don't see anything but a wall of dirt. And anyway, when I look at Sam, his eyes are closed. I wonder if he's praying.

"They'll be coming for me." He says and before I can ask, '_who?_' he adds, "Other hunters. They're gonna hear what I did. What I am. They're gonna want to – _finish_ it."

Finish _him_, that at least I know he's thinking. Finish what _I_ didn't finish, when Dad said I had to kill Sam if I couldn't save him.

"You don't think what with the Apocalypse and all, they won't have more important things to think about?"

"Some won't care." He says. "Some will only see one thing at a time." He opens his eyes but he doesn't look at me. "Some will come for me."

"Yeah, well… I'm not worrying about that right now."

Sam huffs a laugh that sounds disgusted and shakes his head and I figure out he thinks I mean I'm not worrying about _him_. Yeah, I'm pissed at him for becoming four kinds of things I never wanted him to be, but _dead_ sure the hell isn't going to be one of those things. He thinks I won't protect him? Screw that.

"Let 'em try." I add, just so he knows what I _do_ mean. Sam looks at me like I just spoke Martian. _Badly_.

"I thought you were mad at me."

"I _am_ mad at you. Which is why only _I_ can bodily harm you. Everybody else has to get in line."

His expression folds in again and he's thinking – again – that I _would_ let everybody else get in line. It's bad when even a joke feels like a weapon.

"And anyway, anybody who tries is gonna be walking through their own kidneys to do it. Nobody touches you, you hear me? _Nobody_."

He doesn't nod like he should. He doesn't disagree like he shouldn't. He just looks at me, blank, like he can't react at all.

"All right." He finally says.

"Good. Let's hit the road."

We turn in that new dance step we have, deliberately not even getting into each other's air space. It's awkward and stupid and not necessary but we do it anyway, and doesn't that just sum up most of the rest of our lives?

Screw that. Maybe we're both pissed and miserable and guilty and ashamed. Maybe we are at a cardboard motel with an empty parking lot backed up with a landfill that smells like a dunghill. Maybe that's how our lives are always going to be. But right here and right now I am _not_ going to let our lives be about _awkward, stupid and unnecessary_. I'm just not.

_Screw. That._

I walk close enough to bump into Sam and push him off course and then grin at him so he gets that I'm not trying to push him under a non-existent semi. I just want him – I just want _us_ – to lighten up. Even if it's just until we get in the car and start our next long drive to somewhere else.

He stops walking for a second, looking hurt, then confused, then the light goes on.

"First one to the car chooses the music." He says, and starts running.

I shouldn't have a chance of catching him but hey – it doesn't mean I won't try.

"_Screw that."_

the end.


End file.
